jack of diamonds

CHAPTER 26

Sonia parked on a well-worn patch of mud that served as O’Dowd’s driveway—well, what used to be his driveway, she thought—feeling slightly guilty having thought it. There was a quick dip and a hole, followed by two weary splashes of mud before the Bentley’s tires rode over a grassy hummock blackened with oil. The grass was uncut and spotty at best. Turning into the driveway, she hoped she wouldn’t get stuck before she had a chance to straighten the steering wheel. Maybe if I had wider tires, but that’s too much money, she reminded herself. Money was always an issue with her. The War Widow they called her. She knew what her father would say; he’d say it’s nothing more than an extravagance, and buy them for her.

Nigel looked through the Bentley’s open window and over the edge of the door. He studied the muddy path opening up in front of him. He shook his head slowly as he opened the door a crack; looking down, he slammed the door closed again.

"Are you fucking serious?" he asked, looking at Sonia and then looking back over the door at the mud.

She waited.

“Tell me,” he said, turning to look at her again and obviously straining to regain his composure. “Was there that much fuckin' traffic out there on the road, that it made you think this was the safest place to park?” He pushed the door open again and she leaned across to have a look. She smiled, wondering how far he’d get before he sank into the mud. She reached behind her seat and took out a pair of well-worn boots.

“So naturally, you have fuckin' boots,” he said, slamming the door closed and stepping into the mud. “Of course, you have fuckin' boots. And why wouldn’t you have boots? I mean, it doesn’t matter where you park then, does it? Not if you have your own fuckin' boots.”

“You have boots,” she said, looking up at him briefly. She shook her head and smiled as she bent down again to untie the laces of her shoes. “You wear them when you drive your motorcycle into town—and you always drive your motorcycle—so I know you have boots. I’ve seen them.”

“First of all, I fuckin' ride my motorcycle,” he said, leaning over the bonnet of the automobile.

“What? Oh, ride. Yes, yes, of course. You ride a motorcycle, you don't drive it. However, be that as it may, it only serves to remind me that you were wearing your boots this morning. You chose to take them off. I watched you. So tell me once more how this is my fault?”

“You could’ve told me we were fuckin' coming out here,” he said as he got up, slamming his fist down on the bonnet in frustration.

Sonia stood up, sweeping her hair out of her eyes and turning to look at the farmhouse. Nigel was coming around to the front of the Bentley, a dark shadow in the brilliantly bright day. But looking at Nigel as he negotiated the mud pit, she thought, I’d push him if I had half a nerve, and had to supress a smile.

The house itself was a typically English farmhouse. Idyllic was the word that crossed her mind. There were vines twisting through old, gnarly timbers that had probably weathered a century or two, worth of storms. There was an herb garden nearby. She could smell a dozen different scents, but still couldn’t name a single one. There was a broken carriage laying off to the side held together by dust and cobwebs. One of its wheels was on the ground. The grass between the spokes was long and brittle with the season, and it came off as the sort of scene she supposed Nigel had seen at one time or another in the Brit.

Water colours of a Rustic Nature, she thought, looking at Nigel again.

“I didn’t know we were coming out here; not until we actually got here,” she said, sitting up and trying to sound firm—rather than the alternative, which meant laughing out loud at his awkwardness. “Besides, you figured it out before I could even tell you where we were going.”

“We haven’t seen another automobile in hours—”

“Please. We haven’t even been on the road for an hour.” She smiled, trying to make light of it before standing up and pulling her tunic down.

“Now, do you know what you’re going to say?” she asked.

“Me? How would I know what to say, when I didn’t know we were coming here in the first place?”

She opened the rear door and reached inside, picking up her hat and brushing it clean with her sleeve. She put it on the Bentley’s roof and proceeded to tie her hair up into a knot. Looking out at the lush green countryside, she wondered if this was the life she was meant to have? She could’ve easily lived a life like this she knew, and began pushing her hair it into a hairnet she kept in her tunic.

When she was done, Nigel was staring at her.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I didn’t realize there was another way of doing it.”

“Even if there isn’t, stop it.”

“If you must know, I was painting you in my mind’s eye.”

She smiled, putting her hat on.

“You’re very sweet.”

She looked down at the mud, surprised to see it wasn’t as thick and soupy on her side of the automobile, and stepped around to the front of the automobile.

She watched Nigel sinking into mud almost up to his ankles, and tried not to laugh. For a moment she was afraid he’d pull his foot out too fast. She could see it now. His foot would slide out and she’d never hear the end of it.

Nigel asked again, looking at her and almost losing his balance in the process. “What makes you think I should be the one to say anything?”

“Do you mean because it's my case, now?” she asked.

“How'd you come to that conclusion?”

She laughed. “Do you mean because it’s what I’ve been saying all along? Somewhat like I've been relaying the Rules of Order, so to speak? You said you were on it—insisted that it was your case—you even told me the exact moment they called you about the break in. You were very specific as far as that went.”

“Which means nothing now, does it?”

“So...maybe you should be the one telling her?” Sonia said again.

“Oh, that’s just grand,” Nigel replied with a slow shake of his head. “Now you’re telling me it’s my case? Yet, ten days ago, you were telling me it should be your case. You wanted to tell that fat detective—what was his name?”

“Bilge.”

“Yeah, Bilge. I’ll bet you he thought it was his case.” He was silent for a moment. “Can’t say I’ll miss the man, as I didn’t know him. So him dying like that, does that mean we’re back on the case? He can’t have gotten very far if he died two days after getting here.”

“Have you two got it all sorted out, yet?” Claire called out, startling them both. “Don’t you have nothin’ better to do, than bicker and complain outside my window? Tell me you see the window’s open.”

“Mrs. O’Dowd?” Nigel called out.

“I told you, we weren’t married,” she called out of the window.

“Do you mind if we come in?” Sonia asked.

“Just mind the step comin’ in,” she said. “It’s a bit of a drop, as Mr. O’Dowd liked to say.”

Sonia could hear the tremor in the woman's voice—faltering even as she spoke out.

She forced a smile as she stepped into the cramped kitchen. She looked at Claire, forcing a weak smile. How was she expected to ask? She’d confronted death on so many levels, but had yet to confront someone in the face of it. There was light coming in through the windows, but it was soft, and almost muted; through the window above the sink, it crossed the wooden floor before splaying itself up against the side wall. Sonia hoped she was up to answering questions—but she was also thinking their stopping by to see her might’ve been a mistake. What could she tell them she hadn’t told everyone else? And what if they’d come, and she was despondent?   

She remembered how she’d crumbled when she first heard about her husband. The last thing she wanted was Claire crying all over her shoulder and bringing up those memories again. Some things are better left forgotten, she told herself—maybe not forgotten, but at least buried in the back of your mind.  

Claire was standing behind a large table. It was something new since the last time she’d been here—and Claire began wiping her hands on her apron as Nigel stepped onto the landing, the light behind him as his form darkened the door frame.

“Mind the step,” Claire said, one hesitant hand in motion, then relaxing.

The air was heavy with the aroma of freshly baked meat pies, a light dusting of flour reminding her of an early frost at dawn. She remembered how the last time they were here Claire fed Nigel one of her pies. The room was just as cramped then as it was now, the air still heavy with the aroma of meat slowly stewing. There were more than a dozen pies sitting on various surfaces—all of them waiting to be delivered, no doubt.

“How’s the pie business?” Nigel asked, grinning as he stepped down off the landing, making his way around Sonia.

“It’s the only thing that keeps me going,” Claire said, trying to smile but failing miserably.

“Who does your deliveries?” Sonia asked.

“There’s a boy what comes around. He can drive the truck, so I let him. He’s fourteen and I’m happy to pay him handsomely. It inspires him to work harder. Artie says he's going to teach me how to drive when he gets back. Probably a good thing to know under the circumstances, but I think I’ll keep the boy on.”

“You said: Back?” Nigel echoed. “Isn’t he here? Artie? Mr. Spencer, I mean?”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Sonia asked.

“Off to London,” she replied, and pulling three pie shells out of the oven, lay them on the table in front of her. She turned to a blackened pot simmering on the back of the stove, stirring it slowly before turning to face them.

“Did we catch you at a bad time?” Nigel asked.

“A bad time?” Claire smiled. She leaned back against the counter, beside the stove, and looked at the two of them. “That depends on why you’re here.”

“Just a few questions we thought you could help us with,” Sonia offered.

“Questions? What sort of questions? I’ve pretty well had it with all your questions,” she added, and turned her attention to the three pie shells she’d taken from the oven. “No one wants to have anything to do with me because I’m a woman, and as such, say I have no rights. No rights? What does that even mean? I’m not allowed to answer on my own behalf, even though the will says it all belongs to me. Because I’m a woman, I have no rights. Does that sound right to you?”

She was looking directly at Sonya.

“No,” was all she said.

“That’s what Artie said. He went there to meet with the Suffragettes—”

“Why? They’ve already won the vote,” Nigel pointed out.

“Now they need to focus on Women’s Rights, rather than just the one Right.”

“I suppose we’ve let the cat out of the bag now, haven’t we?”

“Is that supposed to be humour, or wit?” Sonia asked, and watched Nigel flush in the soft light.

“I apologize for that,” he said, trying to look serious. “I meant no disrespect.”

“I’ve done nothing but answer your questions since it happened,” Claire mumbled. She looked at Sonia. “Reggie might not’ve been the best of men, but he was the best man for me, here in my little corner of the world.”

“There’s no doubt he was good for you.”

“So what do you want to ask?”

“When did you first hear he’d been killed?” Nigel asked.

“Some inspector from Scotland Yard came out to question me.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I’ve forgotten—just as I’ve forgotten him.”

“Why’s that?” Sonia asked.

“Stories about what he said Reggie was like before the War—with gangsters and arrests—and he may have been all those things, I won’t deny it. But he didn’t go back to that life, did he? That’s got to account for something. He was done with that life. It was the War what did it to him.”

“I haven’t heard the stories,” Sonia admitted.

“Let’s just say he wasn’t the nicest boy in the sandbox. But that’s just it, isn’t it? He was a boy. He signed up and went over there thinking it’d all be over in six months. He was only eighteen. He was there for three years before he got wounded. Three years,” she added with a slow shake of her head. “Can you imagine what that must’ve been like?”

“All too well,” Sonia admitted.

“Really?”

“I was a nurse. Whatever he told you, it was probably worse.”

“Three years?” Nigel said with a slow shake of his head.

“And were you there as well?”

“Motorcycle dispatch.”

“Dispatch?”

“A lot of us went there thinking we’d make a difference.”

“And? Do you think you did?” Claire asked.

“I’d like to think it did—I mean, we won, didn’t we? But looking back? I doubt if anything anyone did could count toward making a difference. I doubt if you could say it mattered when it was all over.”

“Reggie liked to think it did.”

“That’s what was good in him,” Sonia nodded. “It probably explains why he came here in the first place.”

“He came here because he could. He was left this place by some old relative he barely remembered. It was a chance to start over again. He was done with whatever that other life had to offer. This was something he’d built himself. He was a good farmer. And now he’s left it to me.”

“I suppose everyone’s screaming because you two were never married?”

“You could say that,” she said, trying to hide an embarrassed smile.

“Where’s Artie?” Nigel asked.

“I told you: London. Why?”

“You’d think he’d be here for you.”

“Would you? And why would you think that?”

“He and Mr. O’Dowd were close friends, weren’t they?”

“He’s off to London to see what he can make of things as far as a solicitor is concerned, because that’s what a good friend would do. He has an uncle he feels may be able to help. His sister is not without her own friends, and through her, he’ll contact the Suffragettes, because that’s what a good friend would do. Oh, and he says he has acquaintances, of whom several are newspaper owners as well,” she said. She was filling the last of the three pies and placing it beside the two others on the table.

“And why does he feel he has to do all that?” Nigel asked.

“Do you not understand the simpler concepts involved with friendship?” Claire asked.

“I’m sorry? What?” Nigel seemed taken off guard by the question.

“Why do you find it so difficult to believe someone like Artie, someone who went to war with men below him on the social scale, but heads above the rest when it came to heart; why do you find it so hard to believe him? This is the second time you’ve come here asking about him. Is it any wonder he doesn’t have a lot of confidence in you two?”

“What exactly does he think he can do, that we can’t?” Nigel asked.

“Find out who did it, for one thing.”

“And if he does?” Sonia asked, “what does he plan to do?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask,” she added.

“He’s interfering with an ongoing investigation—”

Claire barked out a quick laugh.

“An ongoing investigation? Do you mean Scotland Yard’s? Or are you two thinking you can solve it? Because, like I said, he doesn’t have a lot of confidence in either you or the Yard. Can you blame him?”

“So he’s going to solve it himself?” Sonia stated.

“I have a feeling he’ll get more answers than you will.”

“And why do you think that?”

“He doesn’t have to follow the letter of the law, does he?”

“I have to say, that didn’t go as well as I’d fucking hoped,” Nigel said, opening the Bentley’s door and climbing into the seat. He crossed his arms, waiting for her to sit down.

“What were you expecting?” Sonia asked, as she busied herself with changing back into her walking shoes. “How did you think it was going to go?”

“Well, not like that!” he laughed, and reaching over, slammed the door. “I'm grateful they fucking told her...about O’Dowd, I mean. I truly am. But the fact still remains, Artie’s fucked off to London where we can’t touch him.” He slammed the door as if he was ending a statement. He didn’t know whose brilliant idea it was not to tell him she’d already been told, but something was telling him it was either Rose, or Charlie.

“I don’t see why we can’t go after him.” Sonia picked her boots up and looked at the bottoms closely, scraping mud off the soles.

“Go after him? Are you fucking mad?”

“Mad? To go to London?” she asked, looking at him and flashing a smile.

“No, really,” he laughed. “Did it not strike you that it might have something to do with the fact that we’re in fucking Devon?” She thought he sounded somewhat sour. “I mean, I mean it does seem rather obvious,” he added, crossing his arms and settling back down into the seat.

“And what if we named him as our principal suspect?” she asked, placing her boots behind the seat.

“Who? Artie? In which fucking case?”

“The theft of the Strad, of course,” she said, trying not to sound too obvious.

“Based on what?” he asked with a laugh. “The fact we saw him jump from a balcony railing to a chandelier and back again, all in one go?” Nigel laughed. “And so we have as a suspect—that is a thief—who can climb the outside of buildings, gaining access to upper floor windows? Who are we supposed to say that too? We have no fucking proof, but he’s a suspect him all the same? That’s hardly the kind of evidence that will put him away.”

“Not to arrest him, no. But it might be enough to get us into London.”

“You expect they’ll send us to London, do you?”

“They will if we say we have a suspect we’re trailing, and the trail leads to London.”

“They’ll tell us to forward all the information we have to the Yard, and let them deal with it. We’ll be left out of it again.”

“And what if we say we should be the ones to question him?” she insisted.

“First, we’d have to convince them we think he’s in fucking London,” he replied as she started the Bentley and backed out of the mud and into the small lane.

The road out to Bedloe Manor was through countryside that was washed in brilliant colour. The weather was brisk, but she said she had a blanket they could share, and there was a small flask of brandy somewhere. The sun was out and she reached for a pair of sunglasses, put them on and smiled at him as she settled in for the long drive.

“And why do you think we have to convince them?” she asked.

“What excuse could you possibly come up with for not telling them where he is?”

“But we don’t know where he is; not really.”

“So why can’t we ask them to pick him up and hold him for us until we arrive?”

“What if we tell them he gave us the slip?”

“You say them. To whom, exactly, are you referring? Okehampton, or Chumley Grove? Or were you thinking of taking this to Plymouth? I need to know what you’re thinking.”

“I was thinking…we drive out to see the Baron, explain it to him, and get him to put in a good word for us. He has a telephone. We let him request that we be sent off in hot pursuit.”

“And you think the Baron will help us?” He sounded skeptical.

“Ultimately, yes. I mean, it’s his violin, isn’t it? We won’t mention O’Dowd’s murder. He doesn’t need to know about that. We play up the violin. Wouldn’t it be in his best interest to make certain we follow the only lead we have?”

“And you want to talk to the Baron about it?”

“He wants his Strad back,” she pointed out.

“And when we don’t deliver? Because we don’t have a clue as to where he really is, remember? It’s all over the moment someone calls our bluff.”

“Then we won’t let that happen, will we?”

Sonia changed the subject.

“Tell me…did you believe her?” she asked.

“Who? Claire? Why? Do you think she was trying to hide something?”

“I do, but I don’t know what,” she said slowly.

“I’m not going to say I believed her implicitly,” Nigel laughed.

“Is that a 'but'?”

“Exactly. ‘But,’ ” he said, levelling a gaze at her.

He looked at the mud on the bottoms of his shoes and suddenly hoped he didn’t track huge clods of mud into the Bentley. He’d scrape it off once it was dry, he told himself, but in the meantime, it gave him something to think about. They were making huge advances in science these days, and he wondered if that was the way the investigation should go.

“Do you know anything about the science they use?” he asked, still looking down at his shoes.

“Science? And where are you going with this?”

“Yes. Science. There was mud inside Bedloe Manor. The room Artie climbed into. I assumed it was from the garden outside. It was on the wall, as well as the sill. But the mud on the sill was a lighter colour.”

“So?”

“If there’s a way we can determine that the mud on the house is the same as the mud outside the window, maybe we can determine where it came from?” he offered.

She looked down at his shoes.

“And wiping your muddy shoes on my floor inspired this line of reasoning, did it? Not something like, ‘Oh, sorry Sonia, I didn’t mean to get mud on your floor, but…’ That’s what you should be saying, instead of whatever you thought you said.”

“A strange way of saying it, but it almost goes without saying—”

“No. It doesn’t. Try again.”

“I’m sorry Sonia, but I’ve tracked some mud into the Bentley.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” she laughed. “I’ll sweep it up when it dries.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

She nodded. “I thought it might be funny,” she said, turning to look at him and forcing him to laugh. Waiting him out as she smiled at him.

“Im sorry,” she said, bouncing on her seat as she turned back to face the road. “I’m listening, now tell me where you're going with this.”

“What if the mud's from O’Dowd’s drive? The mud on the bottom of my shoes? Knowing what kind of mud it is might prove he was there.”

“I’m not saying it’s not possible,” she reasoned. “I want to believe it is. I think science as a whole has made great leaps. But a splatter of mud at the scene of a crime is hardly compelling as far as evidence goes.”

“It doesn’t have to be compelling. All you have to do is show it’s possible. It might be coincidental, but coincidentally, it points a finger in the right direction. That was wit, by the way.”

“And very subtle it was," she said with the trace of a smile. "But when we started this discussion, I was trying to convince you that we needed to go to London. Now, you’re telling me we can get him with a scrape of mud? Who are you going to present this to?”

“Certainly not Charlie! Or Rose!” It was his turn to laugh, and she smiled.

“So we still go see the Baron?”

“Why on earth I’m I listening to this?” Nigel asked himself.

“Because he might get us on the train to London,” she said after a moment’s thought. “If we tell it to him straight and clear.”

“It don’t think that’s the way to go about it,” he smiled, shaking his head.

“Didn’t he and Artie’s father attend the same school together somewhere?” she asked a moment later.

“What? Do you think there’s loyalty there?”

“That depends on how well Artie presented himself, doesn’t it?”

“Artie means nothing to him.”

“They have a habit of taking care of their own,” she pointed out.

“That they do,” he agreed. “Of course, Artie could be lying. He does seem to have a propensity for it, don’t you think? He lied about the horse, remember?”

“What about Roger Ashcroft?”

“What about him?”

“How do you think he fits into the whole thing? As the cuckolded husbanded?”

“Probably just a smokescreen—”

“A smokescreen? I’ll bet you he’s more than just a little anxious to know who beat the fuck out of him like that,” she was quick to say.

“What? Are you thinking he’ll pay for your fucking trip to London?”

“No, but maybe he can help us convince the Baron? And if not him, maybe the Baron’s daughter…Jenny? And maybe—just maybe, mind you—the Baron will be more inclined to help convince whoever he speaks to, that we should be sent us off to London? And all the while, we keep secret the idea he was betrayed by his daughter.”

“His daughter? Why her?”

“Why? She stays home while everyone else goes out to the Fair? That's too much of a coincidence. I don't like coincidences. Even if it's a maybe, that maybe will haunt us if we don’t take look into it while we can.”

“You think she’s behind it? Her own parent’s house? Why?”

“Money, of course. She might as well have confessed when she said her husband wasn’t one of the nouveau riche.”

“You read too many detective stories,” he said.

“Maybe they hired him and he double-crossed them? Goes after Ashcroft and beats the fuck out of him so he doesn’t talk.”

“And who double-crossed who, or did she do it?” he asked.

“It would be easier to believe it was her.”

“Would it?” he asked, looking at her.

“She’s a very pretty girl. I get the feeling she’s been straying off the Beaten Path. And if it’s not her, it’s him.”

“For fuck’s sake! How can you possibly come to a conclusion like that? You’ve castigated the two of them without even knowing anything about them. How could you possibly not think that now—after that brief demonstration of what you really feel—anything you say isn’t going to effect the way I think of you?”

“And what would that be?”

“That you’re a complete and utter dolt.”

She looked out of the side window at the Devonshire countryside, admiring the wide open fields of lush greenery disappearing into distant tawny shades of faded yellow. Verdant tracks of rolling hills spread out over the low laying landscape that kissed the sky in the distance where dark clouds loomed over the horizon. The sun was breaking through the edge of the clouds and illuminated patches of land separated by hedgerows and trees, fading to blue in the distance. She could see a bird soaring over the fields—a raptor of some sort, she told himself—watching it float on invisible thermals with an effortless flap of it wings, turning in one direction and then the other the higher it soared, until she lost sight of it. The landscape slipped by in endless acres of farmland, the occasional farmstead scarring the land with sod fields turned down like a blanket on a bed, sheep freckling the landscape as farmers worked the fields.

It would make a nice painting, she thought.